


Tomorrow Tastes Like You and Me

by bella_my_clarke



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellarke, F/M, First Kiss, Light Angst, Sad Kiss, canonverse, the 100 s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 17:53:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10037186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bella_my_clarke/pseuds/bella_my_clarke
Summary: "I want you to be happy.”Softening, he looks over her face and murmurs, “You. You make me happy. Just being here...it’s enough.”The way he says it, like he knows the fact better than his own name, renders Clarke dumb for a few moments—more than that, though, it’s the way he’s looking at her; his eyes have gone dark and fluid, and they slide over her face like he’s waiting for something.Permission, she realizes. The same thing she’s waiting for. “Could I—” She falters, struggling to find the words. “I mean, could we—”-Or: the world is ending, but if it doesn't, Clarke knows who she wants to be there with her





	

**Author's Note:**

> Tagged by @problematicbellarke on tumblr and lowkey @bellamybb

“How are we going to survive, Clarke?”

She looks at Bellamy for a long time before answering. The cuts he sustained when he was kidnapped have healed, and he doesn’t look so empty as he did before she could confirm Octavia was alive and would remain so, but she sees a little less life behind his eyes every day, and it scares her. “Like we always do. Together.”

He gives her a weak smile at that, but the lack of a plan must be worrying him – it’s certainly worrying her – and the fact there’s nothing better to say cuts at Clarke like little else can. She can’t leave him like this, though, so unsure of their future and whether he should be in it, so she reaches for his hand and squeezes it once, tightly.

Bellamy’s eyes flutter shut at the action, as if it’s taken away his ability to maintain his calm demeanor, and he drops his head before squeezing back. “I don’t want us to end up at the same place every time, Clarke. I don’t want to be terrified of a war or a disease or a storm following us wherever we go. I want....” He pauses, as if unsure if he can really voice it aloud, then finishes in a mere whisper, “I want to be done fighting.”

“You will,” she whispers; then, suddenly desperate, “You’ll be done someday. We both will. It’ll be—it won’t always be like this.”

Brokenly, he whispers, “I hope so.” Then, forcibly more casual, he adds, “We should get some sleep,” and stands to leave.

Somehow, the movement sets a weight in Clarke’s heart, like he’s leaving for good and not just going to his room, and without thinking she calls after him. “Bellamy. Wait.” He turns, holds her gaze inquisitively, and she takes a few steps towards him. “I...if there’s anything you ever need, Bellamy, anything I can do...I’ll do it. I want you to be happy.”

Softening, he looks over her face and murmurs, “You. You make me happy. Just being here...it’s enough.”

The way he says it, like he knows the fact better than his own name, renders Clarke dumb for a few moments—more than that, though, it’s the way he’s looking at her; his eyes have gone dark and fluid, and they slide over her face like he’s waiting for something.

Permission, she realizes. The same thing she’s waiting for. “Could I—” She falters, struggling to find the words. “I mean, could we—”

Bellamy nods imperceptibly and takes the last step between them, coming close enough that their noses brush, before closing his eyes—still waiting, as he always does, for her to make the final decision.

There’s a beat before Clarke closes the gap between them, and then it’s like the world crumbles around them; everything temporary, everything unimportant, everything that isn’t _him,_ is suddenly nonexistent, and she’s left with only the pressure of his mouth and the warmth of his nose slipping across hers and the tingling sensation where his fingers are inches from hers and—and then. And then from the nothingness Clarke sees the one thing she’s tried to suppress these past months, the exact thing she’s always wanted—a home, quiet and safe and messy enough to know it’s lived in; a pleasant ache in her fingers from hours of sketching; a clear view of children running back from school; a bed with far more room than they’ll ever use.

_They._ Her and Bellamy. The realization hits Clarke like a truck, even though she’s honestly known for ages now—in any future where she’s happy, he’s there. He’s there to brush kisses across her cheekbones, and sing to her when even in his arms she has trouble sleeping, and bury his face in her hair until he can breathe again. He’s there the way he is now, soft and close and _hers._

And yet just as clearly, Clarke can see the future without him; the deep blackness of her nightmares now inches from her fingers, so close to reality she can almost taste it. It doesn’t help that she’s shaking and tears are inches from slipping out of her eyes and Bellamy’s kissing her like they’re going to die any moment—and they could, couldn’t they? Now that Jaha’s scrapped the list, they might not be on it together. One of them could get left behind, if either of them survive to that point at all.

The thought makes Clarke’s heart ache so much she can’t breathe, and instinctively she moves her hands to Bellamy’s cheeks to steady herself, but a split-second later she realizes his cheeks are wet. Bellamy is crying—not sobbing, not quite; his mouth is steady against hers, unshaking. But there are tears. She’s kissing him, and he’s crying.

Slowly, she pulls away, looks over his face; he looks awed and broken at the same time, like he just discovered a cure but there’s no one left for it to save. Then he reaches out a hand and brushes it across her face, whispering, “You’re crying.”

It takes Clarke a moment to realize he’s right. “So are you,” she says dumbly at last, thrown by the look of near heartbreak on his face.

Bellamy nods, tiny and sad, and leans his forehead against hers. She still has her hands on his face, and he has one on hers, and it’s awkward and uncomfortable but Clarke doesn’t dare move in case he gets nervous and back off. She’s scared to be this close to him, yes, but she’s infinitely more terrified of being apart from him.

There’s a long moment of silence, broken only by the uneven rhythm of their own breathing, and then Bellamy covers Clarke’s hands with his own, intertwines their fingers, and drops them to his side. This eases the awkwardness of the embrace, but not the pain behind it; she can still hear it clearly when he speaks, like shattered glass in his throat. “Clarke, I...if something happens to you, I don’t know if I—” He breaks off, swallowing down something that must be a sob. “I _can’t...._ ”

“Shh,” she soothes, only because there’s nothing else comforting she can say. “I’ve got you. I’m here. I won’t leave you.”

Bellamy tenses at that; he knows as well as she not wanting to leave isn’t the same thing as guaranteeing it. But it seems to help, because he relaxes soon after, and for a moment Clarke feels...normal. Like they’re just another couple, taking a moment to comfort each other.

She remembers the dream again, of Bellamy’s breath on the top of her head as they fall asleep; of his hand lazily intertwined with hers just because; of the smile she’s rarely ever seen, full and bright and genuine. _I love you,_ she thinks, but she’s too afraid to say it—the words are more a death sentence than a promise, after all, saved only for endings. So instead she shuts her eyes, squeezes Bellamy’s hands, and lets herself have just one moment of peace.

**Author's Note:**

> @sherlockvowsontheriverstyx on tumblr <3
> 
> (i love comments okay)


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